


Ceremonies

by phalangine



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Five Plus One, M/M, i'd tag this as unreliable narrator but it would be redundant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 03:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17880035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phalangine/pseuds/phalangine
Summary: Strange, that a man who isn't a good chef always seems to make good food





	Ceremonies

**Author's Note:**

> "cooking is one of the strongest ceremonies for life. when recipes are put together, the kitchen is a chemical laboratory involving air, fire, water, and the earth."  
> -laura esquivel
> 
> a _massive_ thank you to jessicamiriamdrew for finding everything i left out and also a massive apology to jessicamiriamdrew for having to find everything i left out

**I. John**

It’s late- well past midnight- but John’s sitting at the kitchen table in Chas’ flat as Chas fusses over a pan on the stove. They’re mates, so it’s all right, but John can’t escape the knowledge that the word doesn’t have the same weight for the two of them. Chas goes through the world with his head down. If somebody comes in and happens to stick around, then he’s happy while they’re there, and if they leave, then he’s sad for a while but squares his shoulders and moves along. He doesn’t crave people like John does; he doesn’t wake them up in the middle of the night because he’s lonely and needs to feel someone nearby as the itch at the back of his skull that wants to do reckless things gets stronger.

For the past few years, he’s had to weather that itch on his own, but now he has Chas.

It’s odd that Chas’ complaints about John being a pain are what make it so easy to come to him, but they do.

John could figure out why that is if he wanted, but he doesn’t. It’s enough that Chas, clad in worn boxers and a worn shirt that’s a touch too short, is bringing over two bowls of something warm.

“This isn’t the Ritz, so whatever you’re expecting, think lower.”

John snorts but happily wraps his hands around the bowl. There’s oatmeal in it, simple but familiar and easy to eat. It’s thicker than the stuff in Chas’ bowl- Chas likes his more like gruel and fills it with bits of fruit and nuts and sugar, drowning out the taste of the actual oatmeal, but they both make it with milk rather than water. That’s the important part.

John lifts one hand to accept the spoon Chas holds out and immediately scoops up a spoonful.

The two of them blow on their spoons and try to get the food to cool down faster without speaking. That’s one of the beautiful things about Chas. He isn’t chatty, which lets John be silent or run his mouth as he pleases.

When their food has cooled enough, they move onto eating in silence. John watches Chas eat and thinks, as he takes in the tension that always creeps into Chas’ shoulders when it’s early or late or both, that Chas is better off with John.

It’s good that John is hung up on Chas. For Chas, at least. Someone ought to know he’s worth holding onto.

Chas doesn’t empty his bowl, but John does. That’s probably why John feels so comfortable, so ready for a nap. He could leave if he wanted to, but when Chas asks if he should get a John a blanket, John can’t be bothered to fight the warmth that’s sunk into his bones.

So he stays the night on Chas’ sofa, wrapped in Chas’ blanket, and finally sleeps through the night.

 

 

**II. The group**

It’s well-known that life on the road is hard- not everyone is made of whatever’s inside Keith Richards. Hectic schedules, days spent cramped in buses, inhuman hours, it’s all enough to make anyone go a little mad.

So when Chas starts sharing some of his energy balls- a name he’s given a good amount of ribbing for- John and the others figure they probably won’t help but they can’t hurt.

Anne Marie eats one, and for the rest of the day, she stops jumping down John’s throat at every opportunity. She doesn’t suddenly adore him, but she does choose to let smaller things slide. And Ritchie catches her singing happily to herself, which she hasn’t done since they started touring.

John tries one, and within an hour, he’s feeling less jittery. He’s got energy, but it’s the good kind.

He finds his way into an orgy that night, and the sex feels more vivid than it has in a while.

The next morning, Gaz asks what everyone else is wondering.

“Chas, are those things spiked?”

To his credit, Chas does look genuinely surprised by the question. Then he shakes his head. “No, it’s just been that long since you ate something with protein.”

Anne Marie asks him for the recipe and makes a batch herself. They’re easy, apparently. You don’t even need an oven.

What she presents to them looks, smells, and tastes the same as what Chas gave them, but nobody feels as good as they had when Chas made them.

Obviously, there was something special in them, but Chas swears up and down he didn’t mess with them.

John believes him because Chas isn’t the sort to slip things in people’s food, but the fact remains- _something_ happened.

So Ritchie buys brand new ingredients, and they all gather in Chas’ hotel room to watch him make untampered protein balls- John suspects a few of them might be more interested in Chas being shirtless “to rule out sleight of hand” than the food itself, but he isn’t  exactly complaining.

Nothing goes into the bowl except what Ritchie bought, yet when Chas hands them out, everyone reports the same feeling as the other day.

The others look thrilled, but Chas, apparently forgotten at the table, looks crushed.

John doesn’t get the chance to ask him what the problem is. They’ve got a performance tonight, and after the performance, John finds himself cornered by two very appreciative women in very short skirts.

By the time he sees Chas again, Chas’ strange expression has been long forgotten.

 

 

**III. Renee**

Chas doesn’t cook. It’s not entirely because he can’t- he can do the basics, and if there isn’t any other option, he can make suitably edible pancakes. But it always makes him skittish and unhappy, even though he’s never made a bad dish.

Telling him that only makes him pull away further, so Renee bites her tongue and kisses his cheek.

When they first got serious, Chas told her cooking wasn’t something she should rely on him to do. He looked so miserable about it, Renee didn’t push, and when she found out about Queenie years later, the pieces clicked into place.

So she doesn’t push. And she doesn’t object to Chas bringing home takeout when he could just fry them some eggs. He’s got limits, but he tries.

Renee has too many exes who couldn’t even manage that.

She comes down with the flu one winter, though, and it hits her hard. She can’t even sit up; she has to ask Chas to call her supervisor and let him know Renee can’t come in.

Lying down and coughing shouldn’t be so exhausting, she thinks. Even thinking hurts, though.

She’s working herself up to dragging herself to the bathroom for a shower when the bedroom door swings open. Chas pads into view a moment later, a tray in his hands.

He carefully sets it down on his side of the bed then stretches further to kiss the crown of her head. It’s sweet and well-intentioned, so she only groans a little at the way he makes the mattress shift around her.

“You still sound like shit,” he tells her. “I know your throat hurts, but you need to eat. So I brought you something.”

“Soup?” Renee croaks hopefully.

“Matzah ball,” Chas says, smiling down at her. “What else would I make?”

Renee closes her eyes for a moment in gratitude, willing the tears of relief away. Chas’ matzah ball soup is her favorite, and she always feels better after she has some, no matter how bad things are.

It’s the only recipe Chas makes that doesn’t leave him miserable, so she doesn’t have to feel guilty for loving it.

He places the bowl into her hands without being asked. “Tea, too,” he explains as he picks the tray back up. “Black tea, half a spoonful of sugar, one gallon of milk.”

If she could, Renee would roll her eyes at him. As it is, she settles for a groan and a careful mouthful of soup.

She swallows it, and it blazes all the way down her throat in the best way possible. She can almost feel it burning out the flu.

“I’ll leave the mug on your bedside table,” Chas tells her. “I’d offer to stay with you, but someone has to make sure your father doesn’t get into any more fistfights with CEOs.”

Renee nods despite knowing Chas has no intention of following through on that. He’s the one who insisted Renee’s father learn to throw a punch, after all.

And the one who drove Renee’s triumphant father home after he threw the punch.

“Your father-in-law is a mensch, Chas,” she tells him. Her throat already hurts less. Speaking isn’t fun, but the feeling of her throat tearing itself apart is gone. “You should learn to punch like him.”

She worries for a moment that he won't catch the joke, but Chas affectionately rolls his eyes and kisses her forehead. “Try to get better before services. Rabbi Lowe told me he thinks you’ll have some strong opinions on his next sermon.”

Renee only has strong opinions, as Chas and Rabbi Lowe well know.

“You’re lucky you’re my husband,” Renee tells him. “Stirring up trouble like this.”

“I am.” Chas smiles at her, soft and warm. “And now I’m going to go be your lucky husband in another room.”

She lets him go with only a look to tell him she doesn’t think he’s funny.

The soup is still hot when she returns to it, and if she closes her eyes, she can almost feel Chas beside her.

 

 

**IV. Geraldine**

The note is simple, just like all the ones that have come before it.

 _Love you, sweetheart_  
_-Dad_

It’s on a yellow sticky note, which her dad stuck to her sandwich. She used to get notes like this every day. For a while, it was so embarrassing that she’d dig them out and throw them away before lunch.

Then there weren’t any for a long time.

Now she gets them again, but only sometimes. Only when Dad comes up for their weekend together. Usually he has to go back and help Uncle John before Monday, so Mom has to put the note inside for him, but he always writes one for her.

It’s weird, not having him around. He’s too far away when she’s mad at him, and when he’s here, she just wants him to be her dad.

He’s good at replying to her texts, though. He sends her pictures of the places he, Uncle John, and Auntie Zed go, too. And he’s getting better at being on time.

Sometimes he even sends her a text just to say he hopes she has a good day.

So it’s not like he’s all the way gone. He and Mom might even be happier than they were before he and Mom got divorced.

It’s stupid to miss him, but she does.

As she takes a bite of her sandwich, the knot in her throat from thinking about her dad starts to loosen.

He loves her. She knows he does. He wears the Magen David necklace she picked out for him when she was little, and sometimes when Zed sends Mom photos, she’ll include one of Dad. If his sleeves are rolled up, she’ll see one of the friendship bracelets she made him.

But she can’t hug him. She can’t hear him laugh or read stories to her. She can’t try to find things to stand on that make her taller than him. She can’t hug him and tell him she loves him. She can’t be mad at him and hide in her room.

She can’t have him.

He was sitting at the table when she came down for breakfast today, though, and he drank his coffee as she ate her cereal next to him.

Mom was already gone, so Dad made her lunch.

“I can’t make everything right,” he told her as he slid her lunchbox into the front flap of her backpack, “but I can do this much.”

It’s just lunch, but it’s more than she’s had in a long time.

Having him back makes her lunch sit better in her belly. When she goes back to class, she doesn’t feel sick like she used to, and even the bruises from recess don’t hurt as much as she fishes out her history book.

 

 

**V. Zed**

She isn’t sleeping. The mill house is the safest place she’s been in years, her bed is comfortable, and despite John’s chaos and Chas’ shotgun, her roommates are more than tolerable. She even trusts them.

Mostly.

But it’s been nearly two weeks since she moved in, and Zed hasn’t gotten more than four hours of sleep in a night. She’s twitchy and seething and nauseated. John caught her crying yesterday, which she didn’t even have a reason for doing except she’s _tired_. Tired enough to fall asleep on her feet except she doesn’t actually sleep. Tired enough to gouge herself when she tried to dice onions before dinner. Tired enough that she’s having trouble remembering where she is in the world and what sort of orbit she’s supposed to be following.

Tired enough to do and feel anything except sleep.

It’s sometime after midnight again, and Zed is staring into the fridge, hoping a cure will materialize.

She didn’t have any luck last night or the night before or any of the ones before that, but maybe this time someone will hear her and send her to sleep.

“We do have to pay bills on this place, you know.”

Zed jumps, startled out of her daze by Chas’ voice.

He quirks a smile at her, the sort of smile that would make her ball up her fists if John did it. But Chas’ sharp edges are different from Jonn’s. The knowing way he looks at her is simple recognition, or maybe commiseration.

Regardless, he’s just being kind.

He gestures at her to take a seat at the table, and with no miraculous cure materializing in the fridge and nothing better to do, Zed does as she’s bid.

“How did you know I’m awake?” she asks as Chas starts rifling through a cabinet. “I didn’t think I was that loud.”

“You weren’t,” Chas replies, twisting to glance at her over his shoulder. “But I got used to keeping track of noise in the house, and it’s one of those things that once you start doing it, you can’t remember what it was like when you didn’t.”

“Wow. Does John know he’s got a nanny?”

Zed says it too sharply, but Chas just huffs a laugh and shakes his head and expands his search to other cabinets.

“I picked it up when my daughter was a baby, actually, but it does help with John.” He pauses in the middle of the room, arms full of bottles. “You like chocolate?”

Zed blinks, caught off-guard again.

Chas gives her another of those soft looks. “Chocolate, Zed. You like the taste, right?”

Oh.

“Um, yeah. Chocolate’s good.”

“Good.”

After that, Chas doesn’t speak for a while. He gets himself set up at stove with his back to Zed and concentrates on whatever he’s making.

Zed smells it before she sees it. She’s too tired to make sense of it except that the smell is nice, and if it weren’t for Chas catching her hands in one of his, she would have grabbed the mug right out of the other one.

“Too hot,” he tells her. “It’s all yours. Just let it sit for a minute, all right?”

Zed nods.

The moment Chas turns away, though, she puts her hands on the mug.

“Shit!”

Chas doesn’t bother turning around, just keeps gathering up bottles and dirty dishes. “I did tell you it’s hot.”

He did. Zed just… momentarily forgot.

By the time Chas comes back to the table and sits down, the mug has cooled enough that Zed can hold it. He doesn’t say anything, and if Zed weren’t exhausted and bold and tentatively sipping at something pleasantly sweet, she would sit quietly and just enjoy the company.

Instead, she asks, “You have a daughter?”

Chas’ expression does something she probably wouldn’t be able to interpret even if she weren’t out of it.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “She lives with her mom up one New York.”

“Do you see her often?”

“Not as much as I like.”

He leaves it at that, and Zed tries to remember how to put her thoughts in order as she takes another sip from her mug.

It’s obviously hot cocoa, but there are other things in it. Zed can’t figure out what they are, and that’s fine. She can feel something in her chest relaxing, the pounding in her head easing.

Chas has a smaller mug of it. The side facing Zed says “Coffee is my daytime wine”.

He’s not so different from John, Zed decides.

She would pursue the thought, but she yawns so wide it makes her jaw twinge.

Chas lifts his glass to her in a mock salute then tips it back and drains it.

“Don’t worry about the stuff in the saucepan,” he says, getting up. “You can have more if you want. If not, John will finish the rest when he comes down later.”

Zed nods and lets Chas leave. John having insomnia isn’t a surprise- she would be worried if he were a sound sleeper. The trail of death and agony he leaves doesn’t feel like it would inspire many good dreams.

It’s too late and too pointless to think about that, though. Zed lets John float away as she makes takes a hefty swallow of her drink.

By the time her mug is empty, she’s warm and relaxed, like waking up first thing in the morning only to find out work got cancelled and she can go back to sleep. She gets up slowly, puts her mug in the sink for tomorrow, and shuffles through the dark corridor to her room.

She doesn’t have time to fret over Chas’ drink not working. She’s fast asleep the moment her head hits the pillow.

 

 

**VI. Bonus**

John appears in the doorway with a platter stacked high with pancakes in one hand.

Chas takes in John’s open robe and low hanging boxers and sees the come on for what it is. Bringing Chas food, wearing the robe Chas likes best, not being covered in dirt or worse… John is obviously after Chas’ attention- why else would have bothered tugging his boxers down that far?

It’s cheap, but it works.

Chas wasn’t married for as long as he was without developing self-control, though, and the years he spent sitting on his hands to keep from grabbing John weren’t for nothing.

“Please tell me you didn’t just bring a stack of dry pancakes,” he tells John from their bed.

John frowns. “I’ll have you know these are fresh from the griddle and moist as anything those chefs you’re always banging on about could have made.”

“That’s a yes, then.”

Sighing, John brings the plate over and lays it on Chas’ chest. “Hold this for a moment, your majesty.”

He starts to turn away, but Chas catches his wrist.

John throws him a look, one brow raised in question, but Chas doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t know what he’s doing either.

He likes holding John. Knowing where he is, having proof he isn’t dying or getting possessed by a demon- it’s all reassurance John can’t give any other way. He’s too good at lying, and his choices are too complicated to take at face value.

Chas could survive for a month just on the memory of John swaying into him after a fight, silently asking to be held.

“Don’t you want your syrup?” John asks.

Chas shrugs.

“I got up an hour before you so you wouldn’t have to make your own breakfast,” John grumbles. “The least you could do is enjoy the fruits of my labor before they go cold.”

John going out of his way to make Chas notice him sets off alarm bells in Chas’ head, but he’s too tired to bother with them.

“Don’t get lost,” he says and releases John’s wrist.

John lifts his hand with a flourish as he walks away, waving off Chas’ concern. He’ll be back when he’s good and ready.

To Chas’ surprise, John is good and ready to come back only a couple minutes after he left. He’s got syrup and the butter dish in one of his robe’s pockets, one fork and a bunch of knives in the other pocket, and Chas’ mug in his hands.

Chas tried to help him sit down, but John makes a sharp noise at him and takes one hand off the mug to give Chas a firm push back against the headboard.

“Stop trying to help,” he says as he settles on the edge of their bed. “I’m bringing you breakfast in bed. So just sit there and let me do it, would you?”

Chas lets John set the mug down before giving in and catching John’s wrists.

“Chas, I _just_ told you-”

“What’s going on?” John glares at him, so Chas glares back. “You cooked for me, John. And you brought it to me. I’m not sick, and for once, the monster we had to fight didn’t kill anybody. So what are you up to?”

John keeps glaring at him for a long moment, then shakes his head. “You’re off on your body count.”

“You told me everyone was fine,” Chas argues. Nausea crawls up his throat. “You said they all got out.”

“The townspeople did get out, yeah. But it wasn’t just them in that cave, was it?”

John’s shoulders are tense, and Chas realizes who he’s forgetting.

“I’m fine,” he says, softening his voice and ducking his head. “I’ve died worse than that, John. I barely even felt this one.”

Rather than calming down, John only glares harder. He’s going to try to pull away soon, so Chas fights dirty. He brings John’s hands closer and brings his cheek to the palm of one hand. He kisses the back of John’s other hand, keeping his hold firm even though he’s certain John isn’t thinking about leaving anymore.

He lets his eyes close for a moment, letting the familiar shape of John’s body wash away the sour taste in his mouth.

When he opens them again, John hasn’t relaxed, but he does look less ready to bolt.

“I’ve died before,” Chas points out. “You never seemed to mind.”

“That’s because you’re the least observant person I’ve ever known,” John replies. Then, gently, he adds, “This is the first time I’ve gotten to welcome you back like I want. A bloke doesn’t just wake up his best mate with breakfast and then crawl into bed with him.”

He isn’t wrong.

“But you can now,” Chas finishes.

“That was the idea, yeah.”

Chas has loved John for so long, it doesn’t catch him off-guard when his heart breaks.

“Pancakes are probably still warm,” he tries.

John hesitates.

“Come on,” Chas urges. “Sit with me. Eat with me.”

John hums for a moment before he gets to his feet and tugs at Chas’ hold on his wrists.

“I need my hands if I’m going to eat.”

Chas lets go.

A moment later, John flops down on Chas’ lap.

“You don’t keep kosher, right?” he asks.

Chas pauses with his hand on the plate. “John, we both know you have no idea what kosher means.”

“I know it means you don’t eat my bacon.”

“Did you put bacon in the pancakes?”

“No.”

“Then asking if I keep kosher is useless to you, so why don’t you just help me eat some celebratory pancakes?”

John manages to butter two pancakes before he asks, “What if I put shrimp in them?”

Chas sighs. “If you put shrimp in pancakes, we’d have bigger questions to answer than whether I keep kosher.”

Seemingly content with that, John butters the rest of the pancakes and pours the syrup when Chas hands it to him.

It isn’t often that John is quiet and sober, and it’s even rarer that he’s happy, too. As he cuts into the stack and spears a section, though, John’s usual cloud of alcohol and unhappiness is thin enough that Chas can breathe deeply. He’s got his arms around John, who’s made himself at home between Chas’ legs. It’s a good fit; John isn’t a small man, but Chas has enough height on him that holding him is comforting.

John holds up the fork and waggles it, so Chas leans forward and takes the offered bite.

“Well?” John asks.

Chas squeezes him. “At least let me finish chewing.”

“You sound finished now.”

Rather than argue, Chas presses a sticky kiss to John’s cheek. “They’re perfect.”

“Of course they are. I made them, didn’t I?”

Chas snorts but doesn’t challenge him.

When Chas said his latest death hadn’t been a bad one, he was telling the truth. He died quickly and almost didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t even have to change his clothes when he came back.

It’s backwards, thinking John is the one who needs comfort when Chas is the one who dies. But John isn’t as unfeeling as he seems, let alone as unfeeling as he wants to be, and taking care of John is the kind of care Chas needs.

John is spearing another section of pancake when Chas leans in a second time. He goes slowly, intending to let John decide whether he’ll dodge the kiss, but John meets him in the middle instead.

It’s a gentle kiss, but John’s hand is clutching Chas’ thigh like it’s the only thing keeping him in place.

When they pull apart, John leans heavily into Chas. One hand reaches for Chas’ throat but stops inches away, John’s fingers instead following the metal chain to the Magen David hanging below Chas’ throat.

Midnite was more right than he knew when he called John a magpie. John doesn’t put down roots; he takes what he likes as he skims the surfaces of hundreds of religions. Unbound by tradition or law, blissfully ignorant of magical taboos- that’s probably why he’s good at fighting demons. His sleeves have aces from a multitude of decks, and demons can’t counter them all.

It’s also why he makes so many mistakes, though. He doesn’t know the repercussions or the exact shape of every spell he lets loose, so he’s constantly putting out fires he started.

Chas has deep roots, deep enough to hold them both steady when John needs it.

Not that John will let himself be comforted, but Chas can just as easily argue John out of a slump as he can hold John. Holding is nicer, but rattling the bars of the cage John puts himself in can be fun.

The sex John inevitably wants later is always good, too.

Fingers tracing up the chain, John hums thoughtfully. “Chas?”

“Yeah?”

“Eat your breakfast.”

He does nothing to help, so Chas plucks the fork from John’s hand and takes over.

John is uncharacteristically unobtrusive as Chas eats. He touches Chas’ arm when he wants a bite, but otherwise, he seems content to let Chas eat in peace. He even gets Chas’ coffee for him without being asked.

The price for the service is a kiss, but Chas is happy to pay.

They don’t talk about things like Chas’ extra souls not being infinite or the fine line John walks between helping and destroying. They already know everything that needs to be said, and they already know there’s nothing they can do about any of it.

Instead of worrying over the state of John’s tattoos, Chas lets himself close his eyes and enjoy the feeling of having a full belly.

With John settled comfortably in his arms, attention now on playing with Chas’ hair, Chas can’t think of a time he’s felt more relaxed. His deaths have always brought him nightmares and long days where his heart beats too fast. This time John is breathing in time with Chas, and there’s a mark above the waistband of his boxers that Chas left two nights ago.

The night between his death and this morning wasn’t any kinder than any other night, but sitting here now, Chas doesn’t feel the unease that usually twists inside his belly for days after his resurrection. Chas never thought of John as comforting, but now that Chas has held him, he knows better. The way John absently began playing with Chas’ hands because he’s never truly still is endearing. His stubble scraping against Chas’ shoulder feels better than a hot shower after a long, cold night in a haunted wood.

Readjusting his hold on John, Chas squeezes him a little.

John hums and leans harder against him. “Let’s have a lie in,” he says, sounding like he’s only a moment or two away from falling back asleep. “Zed can fend for herself for a while.”

Chas isn’t feeling any likelier than John is, and staying in bed with John is more appealing than anything he would be doing if he got up.

“Zed’s doing that art thing, isn’t she?”

John nods. “Won’t be back until at least supper time.”

Chas thinks about that for a moment. “Let's make the most of that when we wake up.”

“You read my mind.”

John moves a little, and a moment later, Chas hears the plate hit the floor. The fork and knife follow quickly.

“John…”

“I dropped them carefully.”

Chas could point out that “drop” and “carefully” don’t go together, but he doesn’t care. Not when he can follow John’s new line of thought and change position on the bed.

So he does.

John takes his spot as the little spoon and quickly presses himself against Chas, only pausing to reach back and hunt for the arm Chas doesn’t have curled under the pillow. He wraps Chas’ arm around himself almost petulantly.

Chas bends his neck to kiss the top of John’s head.

It’s nice, being able to lie together like this.

Fucking John will be good, too, though, and it’s been almost two months since they had the time, energy, and privacy to get any further than John suggesting they move to the back seat of what he claimed was a legitimately borrowed Subaru.

Smiling to himself, Chas pulls John a little closer and settles in for a good nap.

For all the chaos John brings when he’s on his feet, when they’re lying in bed together, the only things he brings are warmth and a second heartbeat.

Chas has been following John for so long, he doesn’t have to try to match John’s breathing. He just has to close his eyes and let John lead him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> chas is jewish, thanks for coming to my ted talk


End file.
